


Days, Weeks, Months, Year.

by nattycakes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, AU-end of the world, Angst, Case Fic, End of the World, F/M, Infection, M/M, Pining, The work comes first, Unrequited Love, major death, this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:58:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1407439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nattycakes/pseuds/nattycakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The work had always come first. His John wasn't his anymore. Ash covered the sky, but at least John was close. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days, Weeks, Months, Year.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [decinq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/decinq/gifts).



> I wrote this for an amazing friend of mine because I was reccing some fics, and she said "I want to be SAD." Then this happened. It was written in less than three hours, and as per usual, no beta. Or brit-pic. Might be have a beta later, sorry.

Days; 

They were shorter now. The ash was everywhere. At some point some idiot got the idea that you could burn them, you can only burn them after you’ve destroyed them. The myth was that you had to get them in the head. That wasn’t true, Sherlock found out. It wasn’t true at all. A kill shot was a kill shot. John was an excellent shot. Is, Sherlock mentally corrected himself, is an excellent shot. John was still there somewhere, he just had to find him again. His John. His perfect John. Maybe he should have told him sooner, maybe he should have done something other than jumping off the roof at Bart’s. But he wouldn’t turn back that time, he would have done it all over again if it meant John was safe. 

In the first days, people, ordinary horrible every day people dull dull dull dropped like flies. John was already at the flat, he was telling me about a very interesting patient that had lost control and ran from the building, with wild eyes. “Actually gave me a bit of a fright Sherlock. And he’s not the first. I’m tempted to see if I can get Mary and Sheryl to go to a health farm, maybe go where there are less people. You know.” Sherlock looked John up and down and understood. One text to Mycroft and John was getting a cab to say goodbye and goodluck to his wife and his daughter. 

Sherlock just waited. He needed information, he needed data, he needed samples, he needed Barts and he needed his John, who would be back shortly. Maybe together they could fix this problem, maybe together well, maybe together. 

John walked in the front door to 221 Baker St, turned around and locked the door behind him. “Sherlock, can you still not lock a bloody door?” Heavy footsteps, very heavy footsteps, must have been the army duffle. “That’s done.” 

“I can make you a cup of tea.” helpful, be helpful he reminded himself. 

“Thank you.” 

John has red rimmed eyes. He won’t dwell, he will just be the soldier he’s always reminded me he is. 

Sherlock has no idea how to say goodbye to a loved one. His parents are already in America, Mycroft is secure he’s sure. Not that he would ask, or inquire more than likely. The idea of John leaving with Mary was bearable in the idea that John might live through what ever was going on out there. 

“Tea’s ready.” Sherlock stopped himself. He knew he should give John a moment, he did learn that sometimes people need space for feelings, emotions, goodbyes (dull, dull, dull.) But while John, (not His John) he mentally reminded himself was here, he was safe.. ish. “We need supplies John.”

“Go and get them your bloody self Sherlock. Where’s Mrs. Hudson?” he yelled. Not in the angry type of way that Sherlock knew he meant it, but in the I am annoyed please give me a moment way. “She left the day before yesterday, with her sister. They are currently watching over a peaceful vineyard that I won in a game of kou-jong. Reports show no deaths there.” 

“Give us a few, Sherlock.” 

He waited. Hating every second of it. Mentally he was ticking down the seconds till John walked down from the upstairs bedroom. His bedroom he mentally noted. Usually he was better on the uptake, but John was back and something was happening in London, and it was interesting. Very interesting and taking up more room in his mind palace than he was used to. 

The days continued on like this. John would spend time in his room, just turning his ring on his finger. Sherlock would sit with his fingers steepled and would shout out, “John, JOHN we need beans. JOHN I need to go to Bart’s, I think I’ve had a breakthrough. JOHN, someone (usually Mycroft) sent me a text, I need you to delete it.” 

Text from Mycroft were frequent, and Sherlock was not an unusually cruel man, he would text Mycroft once a day about updates, or that he was in fact, alive. John only asked once about Mary and his little one. Sherlock didn’t know how to tell him that the plane was overran, he just said “It’s best not to think about it John, the sooner we crack this, the sooner you can see them again.” 

Part of Sherlock died when he said that. But the other part, the part that he listened to more than others knew this might be the chance. To make His John his this time. Well as close to his as John would allow. He told himself to wait, be patient, he hated being patient, but John was in the mind palace and in the flat. People dropping around him, now that, that was worth looking after and putting his full effort into. Queen and Country indeed. 

Weeks;

After the second week John would be in the sitting room with two tea cups. Sherlock deduced after the eyeball problem, John no longer trusted his tea. Or after the admission that he’d drugged John more than one time, was perfectly fine making his own. Or that he didn’t like the idea that Sherlock pitied him. (Which Sherlock would never do to His John.) He was helpful, he took notes, he wasn’t squeamish about dead bodies.

But he never looked Sherlock in the eye either. Sherlock knew John wasn’t stupid. Well, I mean, he was stupid, but not Stupid. He didn’t observe. Well, he might have observed Sherlock. There was a constant question on John’s lips he refused to ask Sherlock. He waited and waited and waited and waited. But the work. The Work had to come first in this case.

Sherlock knew this wasn’t a case anymore really. It was a plague. The only way to find how to cure it is to figure out what caused it. You already can see what it will do. They’ve had steel shutters put in the windows. There are more locks on the door than (living) bodies in London. Molly had stayed. Molly had moved into 221C for the time being. Sherlock needed her close. He needed someone who didn’t mind cutting the guts out of someone that looked like they could actually be living, but was also a chemist like himself and could run theories with him. He knew Molly would leave soon. He didn’t actually blame her. Supplies were dwindling, and the town smelled sickly sweet and with a hint of sewage. 

He still had a homeless network. Well some. Money didn’t matter anymore, drugs mattered. Anything to remind these people (sheep, cattle, lambs, wait not lambs, lambs can be used as a term to say you like someone. Sheep then.) that if they were going to die, and die painfully, they wouldn’t care. 

At least, they wouldn’t know if they were dying or not, they didn’t actually make any words, but they didn’t make any sounds at all. He knew they could see, they could smell, they could hear. If there was any movement at all, they knew it. They were fast. Faster than anything he could imagine. 

By the fourth week he had watched someone switch. From alive to dead. It was quicker than he thought it would be, but the only thing that was wrong with him was a scratch on his leg. A small scratch, by a dog. It was one of Sherlock’s homeless network. The last one he thought. “John, get some rope, now.” there was a very small pause, “Please.”

“JESUS SHERLOCK. You can play with your life all you want to,” Sherlock would admit that that stung, that it stung a lot actually, but that can go back to his mind palace for now. This was fascinating. “But you will NOT play with my life, or Mollys!” 

That was more than John had talked in the weeks he had been there. Sherlock knew that His John was slowly returning. It just took the death of London. He could live with that. 

“What are you doing? Are we going to, are you going to watch?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock sat across from the man after he tied him up, and went silent. 

John walked back up the stairs and got a knife. “Save the bullets, you never know.” John had said one time in passing when Sherlock asked if he was going to take his gun to go get tinned beans. “You’re lucky you never ate anyway Sherlock. You don’t know what you’re missing.” 

Sherlock sat and waited, the nameless homeless man looked as if he was falling asleep. It was as quick as really. His eyes were wild, but he was crying. Crying. Sherlock was angry at himself. Crying. Gobsmacked, he understood. 

Emotions. These people were dying of their emotions. He was aware that caring about someone wouldn’t save them. He did not know how right he would be in the end. 

John walked calmly down the stairs and stabbed nameless in the base of the man’s skull. 

“I hope it was worth it Sherlock.” 

“I know what it is, now John. Think. Everyone has looked different, but they all looked angry. They looked angry when we saw them. We’ve not seen anyone die happy though, have we? We’ve seen anger, depression, loss, grief, and now I’ve seen sadness.”

“Alright so?”

“Emotions John. They’ve been infected with hyper emotions. Will you help me saw out his brain? I need to see it closer immediately.” 

“Where’s Molly?”

“She took Mycroft on the offer to leave. She escaped at night, it was safest for all. She says goodluck. Really John, did you not see that we have more wood for the fire? Or more tinned food. If you can call that food. I can’t.”

John was not one for long goodbyes, but he looked sad. Why would John look sad? His John would be happy that they were closer. His John would start going through all the notes. His John, well His John still isn’t here. 

John left the knife in the back of the man’s skull. Sherlock took as helpful as this John could be. He listened to the quiet as could be footsteps, and the sound of a pot being dragged out to boil tea over the fire. 

Months;

John spoke rarely. Usually to ask where something was. Sherlock paid no attention still where he put something down, and who needs to read old torn books anyway? 

Oh. Oh. OH. 

Sherlock reminded himself that he should look embarrassed. While John slept last night, Sherlock looked through his photo album. John keeps it on his chair and tends to spend hours a day looking at it. Fat little baby fingers holding on to John’s nose. “Tell him Sherlock. Tell him. Spare him.” 

He didn’t. He did tell John that he left the photo album on the kitchen table, and no it wasn’t beside the pile of kidneys (He was trying to figure out how in the infection was processed. So far, the best he could figure it was airborne. He was running out of samples though. They would have to make a run soon. He needed to look at more lungs. And not homeless or 20 a day smokers. Housewives if possible.) 

John roared. He screamed himself hoarse through the whole ordeal about “touching my things Sherlock, how dare you? HOW DARE YOU? What right do you have Sherlock? Everything has been taken from me so many times in my life, and you can’t leave one thing for me. Just one thing. Leave me be you utter cock.” 

Sherlock flinched. No doubt the wondering heard all of that. They would be at the flat door and clawing away at it. Sherlock knew it would be a long night, and best to keep it himself and his kidneys. He would bring up to (not His) John tomorrow they needed fresh bodies to study. That should be enough time right? 

Maybe two days. In the meantime, he would busy himself with body parts of nameless (they didn’t seem to actually decompose, interesting.) and that John had kept a photo tucked behind a picture of himself and Mary on their wedding day, with a clipping of His John and him from the Reichenbach case. Those stupid cufflinks. He wonders if he still has them. Would it be okay to put them by the skull on the counter? More than likely not, but it would give a reaction at least. Maybe not the reaction he wanted, but Sherlock could suffer shouting better than he could the silence and dead eyes. 

By the 12th month, Sherlock finally figured out how it worked, and was repulsed at what he found. Of course he knew who was behind all of this. No one could even deny it. It was the name they didn’t say. But it was Moriarty. No one else would make an infection that makes you insane, dead, gone, angry, crying, stricken, everything everything everything only last a week. If you made it through that week, then well maybe they could return to normal. He wasn’t sure. He needed to test it. Be he didn’t know how to bring it up. If he was wrong, he would be ending his own life. 

If he was right, then that would save maybe millions, billions? He had no idea how far this went. Mycroft hadn’t been in touch in days. He loathed to admit that he needed help, he knew he wouldn’t ask. Mycroft could give him a nameless body. 

If Mycroft was still alive. Mycroft was good about sending a word every two days. 

Sherlock had used every ounce of patience he would ever have. His John had not returned, but would hold on to his shoulder just a second longer before laying down after his watch. His John was finally returning. His eyes were softening, he was resigned to what was happening around him. That their death was likely. What worried him was he was pretty sure John was okay with dying. 

Sherlock was not okay at all with John dying. Not John or His John. He would have to test himself. The only way he could is if he tricked John. They would have to leave the flat, they would have to get their gear. But Sherlock would slip up, he was a very good actor. He would have less than ten minutes to get back to their flat, and have John tie him up in 221A. 

While he was on watch, he set everything up. He wrote his instructions to John. “Do not kill me yet, I have a theory, and I need to test it. Do not let me out until I say the phrase John. Please do this for me. I can not bear to watch you suffer, though I know that this will. If I’m right, then this will all be over, and we can have our lives back again.”

He neglected to mention Mary and Sheryl. That would put John over the edge and be reckless. Besides, he’s survived me once, he might be able to do it again, he reasoned. 

It was morning. At least he was pretty sure it was morning. It’s almost always dark now, but it had been 7 hours, and no time like the present. 

For the first time in almost a year, Sherlock walked up the steps to John’s room. 

“John, I need another head. I have a theory, and I need it today. It can not wait. Be dressed.” And he quickly walked out of the room, not waiting to see if John (almost His) woke. John was a light sleeper these days, surely he heard him.

Sherlock sat on the couch. He figured this might be his last time to look about his flat. The skull, the other skull, the other other skull. He almost smiled at the peeling wallpaper. If anything this flat had never been dull. 

“Alright Sherlock, I’m ready.” John had just finished a yawn. 

“Tea? Anything before we go?” 

“No Sherlock, I find I keep myself from throwing up if I don’t eat or drink before these little outings of yours.” 

Sherlock got off the couch, walked slowly to John and kissed him lightly on the lower lip. It was almost a brush really. He would have never done it if he wasn’t sure he was about to possibly die again. He couldn’t face not doing it this time. The memories of the conversation of being married to his work floated through his mind palace, but he reminded himself that the work might be over. 

John had lightly cupped the side of his neck. He was surprised, maybe, maybe His John finally. “Alright then, I think we should go.” But he held on to Sherlock’s so that had to be something. Right? 

Another time. Another time, it’s always ready for another time. If he lived he would spend the rest of their lives worshiping at the altar of His John Watson. 

Exiting the flat, picking up The Gear Sherlock reluctantly dropped John’s hand. Quickly as they could, they walked less than 15 paces before a wanderer approached, John tore off his glove and grabbed the woman’s hand. 

“John, JOHN NO. NO. NO.” He slit the woman’s throat, and half dragged, half carried John to the flat. 

“Did you think I didn’t know Sherlock? I learned from you to observe.” John had the nerve to actually smirk at him. 

Entering the flat, Sherlock dropped John (His John, this was His John now) and quickly locked all the locks that Mycroft’s people had installed. 

John had dragged himself into what used to be Mrs. Hudsons flat, and sat on the chair. “I already know what you’re doing, so be quick Sherlock. Be quick.” 

Silently he tied the ropes, he fastened the knots, he clicked the chains, and exited 221A, brushing his lips against His John’s hair.

“What happened to my Wife and child Sherlock?” John was too calm. He may not make it. To calm, stop this stop this stop this.

“They never made it to the plane. It was the only one left, and it was overran.” No point in sugarcoating it now. “It could have been us John. We could have been happy. We could have left. All you had to say is let’s leave, and I would have followed you anywhere. You have to know that.”

“That’s it Sherlock. You made me yours. I would have followed you anywhere. I followed you to your first death, I followed you after. I followed you after you fixed my marriage, and I followed you into all of this. If this works Sherlock, I will leave. It will kill me to leave you, but it’s the only thing that’s mine now.” 

John did not utter a single word.

At first, Sherlock sat on the other side of the door. He could hear the movement of the chair. But he didn’t hear sobs, he didn’t hear thrashing, it was like he had accepted it. 

The work the work the work focus get data Sherlock. 

He opened the door on the second day. John had not moved. His eyes had glazed over, and blood oozed out of his wound on his hand, but for all of what they’ve seen, he looked like he was in a coma. 

Can a man accept death? Sherlock mused. 

He stepped closer. John’s eyes flashed with hate. Pure hate. 

Not Your John, never Your John focus focus focus. 

He couldn’t. He walked back out and locked the door. 

He spent the next three on the couch. He ate half a tin of peaches. They were tasted like ash. Everything tasted like ash. He should have nicked a pack benson and hedges. 

On the sixth day, he went over his notes, and in a neat scrawl on the top of the letter to John was three words. 

“I forgive you.” 

Hope, hope, hope, hope. Work Sherlock, think. Think think think. What day is it? Day six, so if your notes are correct, then tomorrow he should be fine. My John will be fine and he can leave and that would be okay because he can forgive me. 

This was not torture, this was acceptance. Maybe John would leave and Maybe His John would stay and Maybe everything would be okay and Maybe it wouldn’t be. 

Less than four hours to go, and he was outside of the door again. No movement within, but that could be a good sign. That could mean it’s okay. Sherlock brought a knife down with him to cut His John free just in case. Don’t hope, don’t hope, don’t think. Wait, think, think about what it, open your mind palace. 

Running to find a mad cabbie (who was frankly bloody awful.)  
Showing a secretary what a nine million pound jade pin looked like. (She did pocket a nice finders fee.)  
The Game. The game was on. The game would never be over. (Don’t think about Your John in a bomb jacket.)  
The Woman. If anyone else was still alive, it would be her. (Pretend like His John’s obvious jealousy didn’t excite him.)  
The H.O.U.N.D. that was exciting. Old murder, new deaths, conspiracy cover ups. (The first time you drugged Your John.)  
The Fall. (Saying goodbye the first time was hopefully the only time.)  
Not being Dead. Oh that was glorious. (Maybe jumping out of the cake would have been better, come to think of it.)  
The sign of his end. (His John was now Their John. Best not to dwell here.)  
The Vow. 

It was time. He hoped he did not have to break that vow given so long ago. He promised he would keep them safe, and he already failed his family. Well, Sherlock reasoned Mycroft failed his family, not him. 

No movement. Eyes still bright and sad? Why is he sad? Why is my John sad?

“John?” there was only a slight head movement. 

“John, please.” I do not beg. Please don’t make me beg. Please.

No movement.  
No movement. 

He was wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. 

He broke his last vow. He could not save His John, hell he could not even save John. 

Year.

He stood there motionless. It had been a year today. He had made sure of the date. Sherlock was never wrong on dates. Well he was wrong about people on dates, but he was never wrong on the date of something. Well, unless it was boring. 

Knife in hand, he stood there. 

You’re being a coward, coward, coward. 

“Be kinder to him Sherlock.” 

“Mycroft. Can’t I be kinder to myself?”

“I think you have spent a great deal of time being completely selfish. I think this time, you should think of him, and not yours.” 

“A moment of privacy then.” 

All he heard was the door shut, “Goodbye My John.”  
Mycroft had looked at him with, was that pity? Oh god that is pity. 

“It’s done, grab my notes.” Sherlock closed his eyes. He paused for a moment to think of Their John. Heaven did not exist, but maybe there is a peace. Maybe he will see his daughter again. Maybe his wife. Maybe he will be all the things that were stolen from him again. That I stole from him. 

“Come Mycroft. The Work mustn't wait.” 

In a flash of great coats, heavy boxes, and arguments of what was actually important and what was a biological hazard 221 was closed and locked for the last time. 

Sentimentality never did Sherlock well anyway. He can fix a problem, but he can’t fix a person he broke. 

After the helicopter could not be heard anymore, the faintest sound escaped dry chapped lips in 221A. 

“Goodbye Sherlock.”


End file.
